Abhorent
by WifeofNjiska
Summary: A nightmare I had the week Trump was elected put down in words.


Nightmare

The camera gets the establishing shot of the white house, newly trimmed in gold plate, and follows President Trump from the door to a car reminiscent of a slick black bullet. No secret service men follow him, Melania and Ivanka are no where in sight. Mister President gets in the driver's seat himself, and takes off. As the car drives itself Donny busies his hands by refreshing his Twitter feed, typing with his right hand while his left holds the device delicately. The autonomous vehicle silently stalks towards the completed fragments of The Wall; where the Mexican Boarder once was is now an impressive monument to the perverse xenophobia of the American Dream. That there are twenty feet of unprotected vastness between each fragment for 'transparency' doesn't make the mounted machine gun posts any less deadly.

At a minuscule village in the shadow of progress the vehicle stops. The American side of The Wall is a spotless concrete bathed in spotlights intermittently, but the southern side is awash in graffito - lots in Russian and Spanish, but the majority in English. Murals are scrawled over and the scrawls obscured by tags which in turn are covered in bills and posters. In small heaps there are the remains of flowers and shrines to the lost. Approaching this side is not illegal, just in-advised.

Trump gets out and walks. He leave his cell phone in the car. He walks.

Walks and walks, finally finding a small mostly boarded up bordello, the light at the end of a maze of paths. The hovel is actually on the line, neither here nor there, the no man's land of WWIII, US vs THEM.

Despite the light outside the inside is a sunken and dark place where the women have seen better days. A faded sign proclaims 'one buck fucks – you won't beat our price!' If the sign is a joke or a testament to the state of the USD I do not know.

The President takes a few moments to survey the room, eyes adjusting in the dim before finally landing on a fresher looking lady in the back. She looks much healthier than the rest, she's positively glowing.

At second glance, it is clear she is very, very pregnant.

A small hand beckons her forward. Her shadowed eyes don't leave the ground as her feet take tiny steps in his direction, swaying slightly with her borrowed girth. He takes her by the elbow and strides to a curtained off section. Despite our desperate wishes, the camera follows Donald behind the curtain. As the heap of faded and worn red velvet is pushed aside, we have a moment to at least be glad he didn't bring Barron. This time.

As the two become acquainted, it is clear something is wrong. No more than three humps of his pale flabby cheeks and the woman begins to cry out, her heavy breasts and swollen belly quivering. She pants and groans, bloody fluids soaking the already disgusting mattress beneath them. The Camera zooms to the action, though it seems far too early for a money shot. Two tiny, baby feet poke out of her on his next withdraw, and he holds them with his thumbs and forefingers as he dives back in, not just penetrating the prostitute now, but also cleaving in twain her as-of-yet unborn child. One of the feet has seven toes which clench then splay lifelessly. Clever sound editing makes his groan louder than her screams, and the camera hesitates on the spot, letting us bask in the discomfort, slowly panning out like a third wheel desperately trying to quietly exit the room.

Suddenly President Trump turns to the camera, breaking the fourth wall entirely. His orange and vinegar stroked face fills the frame and his eyes roll slightly as he speaks, "Because of Roe vs Wathe, there's nothing wrong with what I'm doing here. Uhn." His lip twitches as he finishes, and the closeup moves to cellulite covered ass clenching briefly. He uses that moment to adjust his dentures and withdraw. The other whores gather to tend to their own, carrying her away deeper into the building.

"And that's a wrap. Great job Mister President." The Camera man that has been following this adventure since the white house begins to pack up with his skeleton crew. No women on the crew, and two of the younger guys had to leave the bordello to be sick. They'll be quitting the next day. As such it's the camera man himself who hands the President a towel to wipe the viscera off his genitals. He has a flicker of eye contact, and the conversation continues as a self preserving reflex. "Sir."

"Now get me out of this rat hole. This had better get those pieces of shit to outlaw abortion, or I don't know what will."

"I can't think of a more graphically emotional argument, Sir. It certainly can't be ignored." The Cameraman wonders if he is a good American.

 _It'snotmyfault it'snotmyfault_ I proceeded to wake up drenched with sweat, my husband and dog snoring in discordant unison to my left, a streetlight squinting at me through my bedroom window to my right. I reflected that the impossible had already happened so many times. _it'snotmyfault_ He'd been elected. I'd been one of the billions of women who have had an abortion in my life, and I thanked ... I was happy that being Canadian it was a free, simple process that I could navigate by myself at 18. I thought about the rape I suffered not a week after the abortion, by the not father. _notmyfault_ I thought about the molestation and sodomy I took to court only to have my abuser get away with an acquittal. I thought about the Pussy tape, and the women who had spoken out already, during the campaign. _I'm sorry._ Today I write about a nightmare that looks just a little too close to reality. _I'm sorry._ Almost a year after the initial nightmare I feel compelled to share it. _I'm so sorry._


End file.
